Striker

34. Chapter 29

It’s been almost two weeks since the incident in the garden. I know because I started cutting thin lines into the plaster in the bathroom with my little knife, marking every sunset I’ve seen. I also know because my cycle came. It had been late based on my estimate, and I cried with relief, not realizing I’d been worried. Then Cora’s followed the next day, and we both sent a silent thank you to our past selves for getting the birth control implant.

My ex-husband was so scared to get me pregnant he had me get the implant, used a condom, and pulled out. Reaper’s the only man who has ever come in me and I don’t think I’ll ever forget what he felt like.

We’ve barely seen them since that day in the garden. Just in passing, in the kitchen or in the foyer. Sometimes I find Reaper in the library, but he gets up and stalks away without a word when I come in, leaving me feeling rejected like a fool.

They stopped feeding me after that first day with Cora, and I find I miss the weird interaction. I miss sitting on Breaker’s lap as he runs his large hands up and down my thighs. Reaper’s dark glare that always, always ends up looking more hungry than angry. Striker’s gentle touch and Viper’s laughter.

The few times I’ve found Viper alone in a hallway, or in the foyer, he’ll watch me pass, leaving my skin tingling. There have been a handful of times, late at night I hear music from the large room with the piano, but the door’s always locked so I don’t know who’s playing.

One night I found Cora sitting outside the door, wiping tears from her eyes so I sat down with her and listened to the haunting music, thinking about all the operas my father forced me to attend with him, or the nights I spent with my mother when Rune was gone, cooking for just the two of us while “Ava Maria” played in the background.

I miss her. Growing up, I’ve often wondered what she would think of me now. Most days, I’m glad she doesn’t know me. I don’t think she’d be proud of the woman my father created. There’s a part of me that’s glad she’s not here anymore, so she isn’t at home right now, sitting up late at night, wondering what is being done to me by these men who took us. Scared that I’m being hurt. I may be glad she’s not here to be afraid, but part of me fears she’s sitting in heaven, watching me now, shaking her head in disappointment that I walk around this huge mansion, wishing these men, my captors would talk to me.

I wonder if she’d be disappointed with how Cora and I have survived these past few weeks, turning to each other for comfort.

But it’s more than that, isn’t it?

“Delly?”

I pause on the staircase, Cora’s voice from the foot of the stairs sending panic through me.

Calm down, Delilah. She’s not psychic.

I turn to face her. Her brows knit.

“What are you up to?” she asks, her socked foot moving onto the first step. She rarely wears her boots. Then again, she isn’t hiding a knife. “You look suspicious.”

She knows me too well.

“I’m headed up to the room.” Not a complete lie.

Her full lips turn up at the corner. “Want company?”

The seductive tone and the little jut of her hip make me want to rethink my plan, but I shake my head. “Just going to nap.”

“Suit yourself,” she says, backing away. “I’ll be up later.”

I wait until she disappears into the library before I continue up the stairs.

We’ve spent more and more time apart as the days go on. That desperate fear that kept us clinging to one another left when we realized we weren’t going to be separated again. So now most days we part ways, coming together in the evenings for dinner. We eat the food that’s set out for us, then go to bed where we continue touching. Kissing. Though each time we come together, it’s less and less about making them watch, daring them to cross the line they seem to have drawn, and more about feeling her close. Smelling her skin. Tasting her hungry mouth as she seeks me in the dim light, slipping her small hand between my thighs.

Neither one of us admits we think of them. That we want them to be with us again. Have their fingers sliding into us. Their mouths taking sweet kisses. Or rough ones. I want those too.

I also want to go home, but with each passing day I find I don’t mind the quiet. Chaos consumed my days before, my head swimming with numbers. Mornings were meetings and mergers, then long hours spent at the office or sitting with my father as he negotiated another deal I pretended not to listen to. Cora and I, nothing but pretty faces who kept sleazy men distracted while my father took over their lives, turning a blind eye when he gave Clyde an order to remove a threat, or convince someone to sell or pay up.

We knew what that meant, though we never voiced it.

I don’t miss it. I miss my father and I miss Clyde, but I have Cora and as each day bleeds into the other, I’m content with just seeing her smiling face.

And the men. Whenever I see one of their masked faces, my heart skips.

Cora likes to go in the little garden off the kitchen and I enjoy walking the paths in the large empty one out front. I spend most of the days out there if I’m not in the library, and I think I’ve figured out where we are. At least geographically. I have no clue our exact location, but it’s still somewhere in the southern east coast. Being mid November, it’s still warm some days, though not humid like back home.

I’ve never seen a vehicle but the men seem to disappear every day, off to do whatever it is they do. It’s strange to suddenly not see them after being forced to be with them so much for several days. I can’t help but wonder why all the sudden they have no interest in their captives. I find myself wishing Viper or Striker would pop up and drag me to the dining room for a meal, and I have to remind myself that they kidnapped us.

I’ve never been kidnaped before, but this sure isn’t what I imaged it would be like. It all feels weirdly domestic. After every meal they set out for us, Cora and I clean up our mess, then part ways to wander around, acutely aware of their absence but their watchful eyes. I know there are cameras around, but I don’t think they have the entire place monitored. Some days they seem surprised to find me in parts of the house. Most of the doors are locked, but occasionally I find one open and I go exploring, only to discover it’s locked the next day.

I’m tired of the same rooms, the same endless days with no answers.

Today I’m going to find out why we’re here and what they plan. There’s a reason they took us, and I am determined to find out. So, today I’m going to break into the rooms on the top floor. I know that’s where they sleep. It has to be.

Gripping the cold railing, I lean over the staircase and peer down at the first floor, making sure Cora isn’t watching. Then I twist my body to glance up at the two floors above. The open staircase reveals a ceiling adorned with an elaborate mural, its colors faded with time. I can make out flowers and maybe naked cherubs, but the paint’s flaked off in places. Taking a shaky step, my heart in my throat, I begin to climb.

A few days ago, I finally gathered up enough courage to go to the third floor, but all the doors along the hall were locked. When no one came flying up the stairs to reprimand me, I figured there were no cameras up here.

Right now I really hope so.

By the time I’ve reached the fourth floor, I’m slightly out of breath and my nerves feel frayed. The hall is like the others, with ornate wall sconces positioned between each door lining the wall, ending in a massive window and a door leading to a balcony.

The first door in the long, dark hall is locked, but I move further down and stop at the last one on the left. Casting a quick glance over my shoulder, I pull the knife from my boot and ram it between the knob and the frame. It pops easily. Looking over my shoulder, just to make sure Viper or Striker aren’t looming behind me, I tap the door. It slowly swings open with a creak, like something in a horror movie, sending tingles to my fingers and toes.

I slip in and shut the door behind me.

I was right. It’s one of their rooms.

It’s neat and like my room, furnished with just a bed, a dresser, and a large wingback chair. The bed’s made, blanket perfectly smooth and tucked at the ends with a military perfection. When I see a row of masks on the chair with the slash over the eye, I know I’m in Striker’s room.

Other than the masks, I don’t see anything in the room that is remotely personal until my eyes land on a small figurine on the dresser. Walking forward, my boots tap on the rough wood floors, sending my nerves higher, so I slow my movements, trying not to make a sound. I stop in front of the dresser, catching my reflection in the mirror. Besides my tense jaw and flushed cheeks, I look surprisingly well rested for someone being held hostage.

A familiar vibrating sound makes my heart leap into my throat. The buzz, buzz of a text notification, vibrates again. Placing the knife on the dresser, I grip the handle on the top drawer and pull. A sleek black phone sits all alone in the center. Without thinking, I pick it up and slide my thumb over the screen. An image of five men all wearing the familiar skull masks and all-black uniforms appears on the lock screen.

It’s them. But there’s five instead of four, the fifth one’s mask much like Breakers, but stitched around the edge like Reaper’s.

I swipe the screen again. The lock screen disappears and the thumbprint request pops up. Knowing I don’t have any chance of breaking into the phone, I hold the power button down long enough that the icons to power off the phone or make an emergency call pop up.

My thumb hovers over the red icon, but I stop.

Shaking my head, I lower my thumb, but…

My pulse quickens, yet I can’t seem to figure out why I’m not hitting the screen and calling for help.

Maybe it’s because I know, deep in my gut, the only authorities my father may have contacted are the ones on his payroll. So if I call, it would be on record.

But, if I call, my father will know I’m alive.

Clenching my teeth, I squeeze the phone, but still hesitate.

If I hit to call the police, tell them we’d been taken, they will eventually swarm this place. Guns will be drawn. Clyde will gather a fucking army and these men will never, never just hand us over. They will never let themselves get caught, either. The four took so many risks to take Cora and me, and they have a reason. Reaper says revenge, but it has to be something more. Something that would be worth all of this.

Taking us.

Keeping us warm and fed and dressed.

Your father isn’t a good man.

Everything they’ve said spins in my mind. I know he’s bad. But what could he have done to warrant all this effort?

My eyes slide over to the figurine, and I pick it up, examining the dark wood. It’s a crude carving of a wolf, but the wood is smooth, like someone’s rubbed away all the rough edges.

When I hear the door open, my breath seizes in my lungs. I spin, clutching the two items to my chest. I catch a glimpse of full lips, high cheekbones, and a delicate nose before I hear growling, and he yanks his mask down.

Striker.

He stalks forward with such malice in his eyes that I drop the phone and say in a rush, “I’m sorry.”

His hand darts out, snatching the wolf, brutally yanking it away.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he grates, his voice deadly low. He grips the back of my neck, jerking me forward. My hands flatten to his chest to balance myself, completely unprepared for his rage.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, but I’m not even sure what I’m sorry for. For coming up here. For breaking into his room. For picking up the phone. For being Rune Gavin’s flesh and blood.

His grip tightens on both me and the wolf. Glancing back at the figurine, he somehow looks even angrier than before as he places it delicately on the dresser.

“How did you get in here?” he demands, but then his gaze snags on the knife, eyes widening, then flaring with disbelief. His jaw moves under his mask like he’s grinding his teeth, then the phone vibrates and his shoulders go rigid.

Amber eyes snap to me. My blood chills.

Watching my face, he slides a boot back as he steps away, lowering his gaze to the floor. My hands curl into fists, dread clawing into my chest as he stares down at the phone at my feet, completely still. Suddenly, like something in him snaps loose, and he springs forward, fingers weaving into my hair, yanking me brutally downward.

I cry out as my knees hit the hard floor, my hands flying up to grip his, my scalp burning from his painful grasp.

“Pick it up!”

Tears spring to my eyes. I try to grip the phone but I’m shaking now, my hands fumbling and it slips from my grasp, clattering to the floor as I say, “I didn’t call!”

“Pick it up and fucking call for help,” he growls, the pitch black edge to his voice making my heart beat so hard it feels like it may pound right out of my ribcage. Hands trembling, I grab the phone and pull it to my chest. With a growl, he yanks my hair, dragging me to my feet, then shoves me toward the bed. “Don’t drop it, Princess. You’re going to need help now.”

With a forceful shove, Striker pushes me forward. My arms fly out to catch myself, the phone flinging across the mattress.

I tuck my head, turning my face as he slams me down, his palm pressing my head brutally into the mattress. He bends over, chest heaving, eyes dark with rage in his skull mask. In the weeks I’ve been here and the times I’ve interacted with him, I’ve never seen this wild, dangerous energy. He practically vibrates with rage, something cruel rippling under his skin.

“You were fucking warned.” Striker releases my hair, then tugs up the back of my dress until my ass is exposed. Gripping my underwear, he rips them down my thighs, tugging them off completely and throwing them down next to my head.

“You just can’t seem to listen,” Striker grates. When I hear the familiar clank of metal, my eyes move to his belt. The sound of leather slipping from the loops sends an odd heat surging to my core. “We have told you the consequences, yet you insist on learning the hard way.”

I watch, my heart skittering, as he grips the buckle, then winds the belt around his hand, heat flaring between my thighs at the sight. Biting my lip, I say nothing because he’s right. I was warned and here I am. Suffering the consequences for doing exactly what they told me not to.

The leather belt snaps behind me, and then suddenly pain radiates from my left butt cheek to my thigh. I’m so shocked, from the pain, the intense, horrible burn, and the realization he just spanked me with the belt, that my body goes still, air seizing in my lungs.

An animalistic growl vibrates from him, and the belt lands again. My mouth opens, fingers curling into the blanket. It cracks over my flesh again and again, searing heat shooting out like an electric current, radiating down my thighs. Shock holds my breath hostage, keeping me in frozen in place.

The belt lands again and pain cuts through me like a knife. The need to cover my ass, lessen the pain almost makes me reach behind me, but I clutch at the bedding and hold on as he spanks me, something pulsing and primal sparking inside my center as I lie still watching him loom over me. His muscles tighten in his arms and shoulders as he pulls back and lets it land. Thick, muscled legs spread wider, adjusting his stance as the belt cracks down again.

The sweet man from the garden is gone, replaced by this unhinged devil with the scarred face. Something inside me coils up just as tightly as the muscles in his chest and arms, cutting deep into my core as harshly as the belt.

As it lands again, instead of jerking away from the pain, I lean into it and that darkness blooms, unfurling inside me all over again, that feral woman they created breaking free. Liquid heat pools between my thighs and when I arch my back, meeting the punishing pain, the belt lands lower, spanking my pussy with a cutting slap.

Pleasure fires through my clit. I moan, hips arching downward, my body rocking to meet the belt, reaching for that blinding release I felt before.

Then it stops.

Striker lunges forward, and grips my hair, jerking my head back, ruthlessly. He drags the belt around my neck, then yanks. The leather presses into my throat.

“You will not come,” he hisses into my ear.

Pressure builds in my head from how tightly he’s holding the belt. My mind swirls, my body aching, pain radiating all over my ass and thighs, but it’s not nearly as bad as the ache between my legs. I rub my ass into his erection despite the sting in my skin, unable to control myself or the lust rushing through me.

“Fuck,” he hisses, loosening the belt. I gasp for air. His dick grinds into me. “Greedy girl, better be careful.” He yanks the belt. “I’ll turn you into my good little slut and you’ll regret the day you fucking begged for my cock.”

He slaps my ass, and I wince.

Leaning forward, he whispers in my ear. “Beg me, Princess. I dare you. Beg me to spank your pussy. Because you love it, don’t you? Love the pain and the pleasure.”

I clamp my mouth shut, too scared my denial will sound like the lie it is.

“You’d love for me to shove my cock deep into your tight cunt. Take you. Force you. Then you’d get what you wanted and not have to admit that you fucking crave me.”

Using the belt, Striker pulls me up from the bed. I slide my hand around to feel the skin on my sore ass, expecting to find cuts. It stings like hell, but it’s smooth, no broken skin or open wounds.

I adjust my dress until it falls back down, biting my lip as the fabric smooths over my burning flesh. My shin quivers, a rush of confusion and anger making my eyes burn. Confusion at why his violence turns me on. Anger because he’s right, I want him. Fury because if he’d just have hurt me, maimed me, flayed my skin, I could hate him. If they’d just be completely cruel, this want snaking through me would finally go away.

“Pick it up,” he growls. “Pick up the fucking phone.”

My hand shakes as I reach for it, the belt barely giving around my neck as I lean forward. He plucks it from my hand the second I stand upright. His grip on the belt tightens for a moment, sending heat to my clit, and I close my eyes, trying to center my thoughts, but Striker tugs at the belt, forcing me to walk in front of him. I stumble as he shoves harder, but he catches my arm, keeping me upright, but doesn’t give me much of a chance to regain my footing before he’s pushing me to the door.

Fear skitters through my belly. “Where are we going?” I ask, even though I already know.

“I’m taking you to Reaper.”